Being Me (Inside Out #2)(63)

As impossible as it seems, I find myself smiling at the reference to me asking him if he was filthy rich, but it fades and burns quickly. This is my father Chris is talking to. My father, who some part of me wanted to believe isn’t a part of this with Michael but is. It’s clear that he is.

“We’re still comparing wallets? Okay, then. Yes, that’s right. I make a few million a year for my art, which you make sound like nothing. Fortunately, the charities I donate it to don’t take it for granted the way you apparently do. You should have had your boy Michael here find out more than my personal habits when he was digging around before you decided to threaten me. My banker is Rob Moore at Chase Bank in San Francisco. Call him and he’ll confirm just how much money I have to blow. And there is nothing I’d like to blow it on more than ruining you and your pal Michael here, who seems to think ‘no’ means ‘yes’ when it comes to putting his hands on Sara.” There is a silence when, I assume, my father is talking, then Chris adds, “I really don’t care what you believe happened or didn’t happen. If Michael ever comes near Sara again, I will ruin him and you with him. I’m sending Michael back to you now. And Mr. McMillan, I didn’t understand until tonight why Sara would walk away from her life. Now I do. She doesn’t need you or your money. She has me, and I’ll take far better care of her than you ever did.”

Frozen against the wall, I hug myself, bleeding and healing at the same time. My father . . . Chris . . . my father . . . I remember being a little girl eager to see him, hoping he’d come home. But he was never home with us. Home. That word still haunts me.

“Are we done here?” Michael asks.

“You were done before you ever got here,” Chris replies.

“Sorry, sir, but you can’t leave until we finish our paperwork,” I hear an unfamiliar voice say from inside the room, and I’m surprised Chris has allowed someone else in the room.

“This is ridiculous,” Michael growls. “I did nothing wrong.”

“It’s protocol, sir. All security action must be properly documented.”

My stomach twists in knots just hearing Michael’s voice and I fight the memories threatening to take shape. Why can’t they just go back in the hole where I buried them? That place where two years ago didn’t exist.

Footsteps sound on the opposite side of the door, and I turn as it opens and Chris appears, his blond hair rumpled, as if he’s been running his hands through it. His green eyes fall on me and the hard glint in their depths softens instantly. He pulls the door shut behind him and drags me against him, murmuring softly, “I understand why you left. I understand everything.”

I cling to him, holding on for what feels like dear life. “I should have told you.”

“You would have.” He pulls back to look at me. “When you were ready. We all have to deal with our inner demons in our own way, in our own time.”

My fingers trail over the stubble on his jaw, and I understand too well what he’s telling me. He hasn’t told me everything, either, and I can’t bear the idea that there is still something else, some dark secret that could potentially tear us apart when I’m not sure we’ll survive what is already before us.

“Your car’s ready at the back door, sir.” Chris and I turn to the uniformed guard who has appeared beside us. “The press has been cleared.”

Chris shakes the man’s hand and it’s clear this isn’t their first meeting. “Thanks, Max. You’re a good man.”

We exit to a parking lot and slide into the car. I settle under Chris’s arm, seeking the warmth of his body, the protection I’ve sworn I don’t need, too many times to count. But I need it tonight. I need it and him, in ways I’ve never needed another human being. It’s both comforting and terrifying to realize that the very thing I’ve feared would happen has happened. I don’t know who I am without Chris anymore. I don’t know where he begins and where I end. He says he’s mine. He says I’m his, but no matter what Chris says, he isn’t really mine at all. He’s still a prisoner of his own inner demons and now, I worry, of mine, too.

? ? ?

We don’t speak on the short drive back to the hotel, both of us lost in thought. The cold reality of what has just happened seeps into my mind and crawls through my body. Despite it being eighty degrees outside, I shiver, and Chris runs his hand up my arm. I turn into him, settling my ear on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, trying to lose myself in the steady rhythm. But my thoughts find a way inside the rhythm. My father finds a way inside my head. I should be beyond his reach, incapable of feeling anything where he is concerned, but I am not. My mother is dead. My father couldn’t care less if I’m dead. Michael is the son my father wanted and he would justify anything Michael did as necessary, even forcing himself on me.

By the time we are walking through the hotel lobby, I am one big ball of explosive emotion. I am clawing my way out of my own head but there seems to be no escape, and this damnable, pinching pain in my chest won’t go away.

We step inside the elevator and Chris wraps me in his embrace, settling my hips against his, his hand at my back. I run my fingers through his blond hair, searching his face, and I find exactly what I fear. He is worried about me, about us, concerned that my past, my weakness with Michael, means I’m too fragile to be a part of his life. It wasn’t hate I’d worried about from Chris. The hate was mine. I own it. I’ve lived it. No. What I feared from Chris was this: pity. Him looking at me like I’m a wounded animal. I push away from him and try to step out of his reach. His fingers snag mine and he pulls me back. I see the question in his face and I plan to answer it, just not here.